


No Logos

by ms_prue



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Drunken Confessions, F/F, First Kiss, Uniforms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-27
Updated: 2012-09-27
Packaged: 2017-11-15 04:30:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ms_prue/pseuds/ms_prue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shepard has strong opinions on branding. Miranda has strong opinions on Shepard's taste in clothes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Logos

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Canon,  
> Screw you. Miranda and fem!Shep are great friends. Eventually.  
> Love,  
> Prue

I'm setting up the console in the Normandy's XO's cabin - my cabin, I should say - when Shepard barges in the first time.  
"What is this?" she demands, holding out a fistful of clothes.  
"Underwear," I realise. She seems angry about it, but I'm not sure why. It's just basic gear I requisitioned weeks ago on the assumption that clothes shopping wasn't going to be high on Shepard's list of priorities. "Is there something wrong?"  
She's giving me that look again, like I've got two heads, and not for the first time since she's woken up I'm feeling lost again, wondering how I can know so little about the mind of this woman whose body I've spent two years rebuilding from the DNA up.  
"I don't understand, Shepard. Please, just tell me what's the matter and I'll get it fixed right away."  
"Miranda, please tell me you're joking."  
"Sorry, Shepard, I'm serious. What's the problem?"  
She spreads the clothes out over my desk. I still don't understand what's upset her about them. They look perfectly normal to me.  
"These came out of my closet."  
"Yes. I made sure you'd have all the gear you needed to get started. You've got bigger problems than trying to find clean clothes."  
"And I'm sure I appreciate your forethought, Miranda. But every damn thing in my cabin has got a Cerberus logo on it."  
"It's Cerberus issue."  
"Even my underwear?"  
"Yes. And mine. Sorry, Shepard, but I had no idea it would be a problem. You're a soldier - you've lived most of your life in a uniform."  
But not this uniform, I suppose. And I'm not foolish enough to think the different colour scheme somehow won't matter to her, but I still don't understand why it's worth getting angry about right now.  
And I can see Shepard realises it too, because she's calm all of a sudden, and there's just the trace of a frown around her eyes instead.  
"I know you meant well. But all the same I think I'll call in to the market district when we get to Omega."  
"Of course. As you wish. It's your ship, Shepard."  
"That's not what the paintwork says," she mutters as she scoops up her underwear and turns to go.

She comes back from Omega markets wearing a sack. Or at least that's what it looks like. It's the same shit-brown overall set you see every other colonist in the Traverse wearing and I try my best not to feel completely insulted, because even the worst of the Cerberus gear I left in her cabin is ten times better than what she's got on.  
"I see you found some new clothes," I say the next time we talk.  
"You hate it, don't you."  
"Yes," I admit. "But I'm not here to pass judgement on your sartorial choices."  
"Can't say I'm a big fan of your style either," says Shepard.  
"Anything you want to say about my outfit, I guarantee I've heard it all before." Usually from the ex-Alliance crew members, too, but I don't mention that.  
"Let's agree to disagree on fashion, then," Shepard relents. "Look, Miranda, I think it's important to draw a distinction here, symbolic or not. You're Cerberus. The crew is Cerberus. I need you to be the best XO you can be to manage the crew and keep the ship going, and if that means being liberal with the Cerberus cheer, so be it. But this mission is bigger than that. I'm not Cerberus, and the rest of my team isn't going to be either. And I don't want my new recruits confused for even a second about where my loyalty lies. I'm here to beat the Collectors, not to fly the Cerberus flag. You run your team your way, and I'll run mine. Okay?"  
"I understand, Shepard. Actually, I agree. Given Cerberus's reputation I think the aliens will be more comfortable with this approach."  
"Excellent. And I'll take it as a personal favour if you never use the word 'alien' again, Miranda. They're my team, and that's the only way I ever want to hear Garrus, Mordin or anyone else I recruit referred to from now on."  
"Understood."  
"Good. Carry on, XO."

And I do. The dossiers continue to transform into new recruits. Shepard continues to wear her ugly brown sack. 'Shepard's team' is now the new term of choice to describe the squad, replacing 'those aliens' even when the Commander isn't around. My sister's foster family get sold out and instead of overseeing their transfer to a new safe location, Shepard and I end up tearing up half the city making sure she's safe from my bastard father.

Shepard makes me say hello to her. My baby sister.

And that's how Shepard and I end up in a bar on Illium, with me ordering whatever volatile intoxicants I can get my hands on. That way if I say anything regrettable or, god help me, start to cry, I'll blame it on the alcohol.

"Don't you want to change out of your armour?" I ask Shepard before we go in.  
"No. Why should I? It's not like it's dirty or anything."  
That genuinely baffles me, because we've been dodging bullets and rockets and worse all day, but her armour still looks as spotless as when she put it on.  
"How do you manage to keep it so clean?"  
"I've got a customised treatment on the ablative coating. As soon as the blood and mud dries it just falls off."  
"If it doesn't get shot off first."  
"Hey, I draw fire as a favour to people like you who refuse to wear proper armour like sensible vigilantes."  
I'm not going to go there, not after our last conversation on dress sense and Shepard's lack thereof. I go up to the bar instead. The matriarch pouring the beers won't tell me what's in the mystery drink, so I get us two shots for starters while Shepard finds us a table.  
"At least take off your helmet," I tell her, handing her the shot. "It's a bar, for heaven's sake. The mercs here are off duty. And honestly, if anyone's does start anything, you're going to have to wait in line behind that asari bartender for a piece of the action."  
"I'm here incognito," Shepard replies from inside her iridescent violet, neon-striped, customised N7 armour set. There's a screen above the bar showing a news feed, which seems to have CCTV footage from one of the warehouses we fought through earlier today. At least that's what I think it is. Between the lens flare off an iridescent violet ablative surface and the explosions it's hard to be completely certain until the close-up of Shepard with shotgun in hand.  
"No, you're really not," I say, watching the feed. I'm just out of frame casting a warp onto an unshielded target that Shepard proceeds to charge. The resulting biotic explosion was pretty spectacular from the ground, and even more so from this angle. I trust EDI's recording this so I can watch it again later. Purely for planning purposes, of course.  
"If you must know," says Shepard, downing her shot, "I can't take off my helmet because I'm using it to eavesdrop on the turian and the quarian talking dirty behind us."  
"Shepard!"  
"Do you want to listen in too? I can stream it to your omnitool." Her eyes glaze over for a bit while she follows the conversation. "Goodness. I had no idea you could do that kind of thing with in-suit stims."  
"Bloody hell, Shepard," I mutter, finishing my own shot.  
"Oh my. Is that kind of interfacing even legal?"  
"Not much isn't on Illium," I mutter darkly.  
"Sure. I was just thinking how romantic this place was as we fought through all those packs of mercs today. A perfect honeymoon destination for young interspecies lovers."  
I really need another drink.

While I'm ordering a round of beers I see the quarian Shepard's eavesdropping on pull out her omnitool. Then Shepard jerks suddenly and pulls her helmet off, wincing.  
"What happened?" I ask when I get back to the table.  
"About 100 decibels of feedback," Shepard explains contritely. "I guess I got busted."  
"Serves you right."  
"I regret nothing," she grins, raising her bottle to mine. "Cheers, Miranda. Here's to teamwork and a job well done." We clink glasses and take a drink. I finally manage to let out a breath I didn't realise I'd been holding since I first heard about the trouble with Ori and her family. There's a huge weight off my shoulders for the first time in what feels like years. I slouch back in my chair with my beer and relax. It feels good.  
Shepard's watching me with amusement. I guess this is probably the first time she's ever seen me off duty.  
"How are you doing, Miranda? Really?"  
"Fine," I reply. "Really."  
"I've been thinking about the lecture I gave you after Omega," says Shepard. "I'm sorry if I seemed harsh."  
"You weren't," I tell her, because it's true. She's got her squad, and I have the crew, and us working together pulls everyone into line, one way or another. It's a system that's been working well. Even better than I expected, actually. The ship is running so smoothly I don't even feel a little bit guilty about taking tonight off to go drinking with the Commander. Before I know it I'm halfway through my beer and I realise she's been talking to me and I haven't actually listened to anything she's said.  
"...I know your position isn't easy. You've got to be all things to all people. Cerberus and yet one of my team. That's a damn sight harder than you make it look. So I wanted to make sure you know I can see that and I sure as hell appreciate it."  
And she does. I can see it in her eyes, and I'm touched.  
"You don't have to thank me, Shepard. I'm just doing my job."  
"You do an outstanding job, Miranda. Thank you. Now take some credit for it."  
"Is that an order?" I laugh.  
"Sure is."  
"Very well. Thanks for noticing, Shepard. And you're welcome." We clink glasses again, just for good measure.  
"Now lets talk about something that isn't work," she says.  
"Like what?" I ask.  
"Exactly."  
"I'm afraid you've lost me."  
"Every time I come in to your cabin you're always working. I never see you hanging out with anyone when you're off duty. Hell, apart from the times you come out with me on a mission, I hardly ever see you leave your cabin. You do take time out, don't you?"  
"Of course."  
"Great." I'm almost certain she doesn't believe me, which is why she asks, "So what do you do to relax?"  
"I read," I tell her. "Listen to music. The usual stuff."  
"What sort of books do you like?"  
"I don't really read books," I admit.  
"What do you read, then?"  
"Archive material. Journals."  
"That sounds like work, Miranda."  
"It's not. Hardly any of it is immediately relevant to the mission."  
"Right," she says, clearly sceptical.  
I try to imagine Shepard reading a book, but I just can't. Although I have peeked at her magazine subscriptions and I have no doubt she reads Alliance News, the Nos Astra Sporting Goods catalogue and Heavy Weapons Weekly cover to cover as soon as they hit her datapad. And Fornax, come to think of it.  
Actually, I'd rather not discuss Shepard's magazine reading habits.  
"Aren't you going to ask what music I listen to?" I ask.  
"I already know. I sure didn't load all those playlists onto the sound system in my cabin."  
"And how do you know I did?"  
"The same way I know you're wearing a bra with a Cerberus logo right now, Miranda - an educated guess." And we're back to the underwear again. I'm never going to hear the end of it, I can tell. "You think of everything," says Shepard. "And without your perfect attention to detail, I wouldn't be here today." She lifts her bottle to me again, and I make a mental note never to let her host any formal dinners for the crew, because she'd have us drink the ship dry well before the first course. "So here's to you, Ms Lawson."  
"Cheers, Shepard."  
"Cheers. God, Miranda, please tell me your bra doesn't really have a Cerberus logo on it, does it?" Her expression is so deadly serious all of a sudden it makes me laugh.  
"Not that it's any of your business, but so what if it did?" But Shepard's not amused. I decide to address that problem by signalling the bar for some more drinks.  
"Damn it... Uniform's important, I know that just well as anyone. But there's got to be a point where your uniform stops, somewhere underneath the layers where you stop being Cerberus property and you're just yourself."  
"Well you're wrong, Shepard. It's me all the way up. Uniform and all."  
"Miranda Lawson, that is a terrible thing to say." She looks genuinely hurt, but it's the truth. I don't see a distinction between Cerberus and myself. I don't see a need for one. Our goals are the same, and I won't apologise for that. And I won't lie about it to make Shepard feel better, either. That would just be disrespectful to us both. So I say:  
"I disagree. What's wrong with being fully committed to an organisation I believe in?"  
"It's wrong because you're so much more than just a Cerberus operative."  
Oh yeah, my genetic destiny. As if I was in any danger of forgetting.  
"Yeah, yeah, I'm perfect, Shepard, I know. Believe me. And I chose Cerberus, and I don't regret it."  
"I'm not trying to talk you out of Cerberus," she says. "I just want you to acknowledge there's a part of you nobody can ever own, an essence that can't be cloned or predicted or even reverse-engineered. Unless the Illusive Man has got some kind of control chip in your head I don't know about."  
Oh, that's too close to the bone. But she doesn't have the clearance or the time to look that deep into the records of her reconstruction. She can't possibly know I once asked to do exactly that to her, or how much I regret it. So I force myself to look her straight in the eye and say,  
"Don't worry, my free will is completely intact."  
And then, blessed distraction, some of those mystery drinks arrive at our table. They're actually not bad.  
"So tell me, Miranda, deep down, what are you fighting for?" Shepard asks.  
"Humanity, of course."  
"Any parts of it in particular?"  
"All of it."  
"Impossible," says Shepard, like she's just scored some kind of point. "Not even someone as smart as you can hold the idea of all of humanity in your head and use it for motivation under fire. There's always something more personal, more immediate that gets you through."  
"I'm sorry to disappoint you, Shepard, but there's really not."  
"Not even your sister?" I shake my head. The truth is, until today, thinking of my baby sister probably would have hurt more than than it helped. "Nobody at all?" She's incredulous. "I don't believe you."  
"I don't care. Anyway, what about you, Shepard? What motivates you?"  
"People," she replies vaguely, swishing her mystery drink around in its glass. Hah. Well, two can play this game.  
"Which people?"  
"Okay, yeah, you got me," she concedes. She looks troubled for a moment. Sad, almost. So I don't press her.  
"The colonists I grew up with on Mindoir," she says finally. "My school friends and their parents who were killed and taken by slavers." She was 17 when that happened, I recall from her dossier. I still can't imagine Shepard as a farm girl, even when she wears that hideous sack thing all over the ship. Hell, on the battlefield, laying waste to everything in her path, sometimes it's hard to remember she's even human. It's nice to be here with her now, just two friends out having a drink and a conversation. Almost like normal people.  
Almost.  
"After the Alliance evac'd me and the other survivors out I was a mess. Everything I had ever known was gone, and I didn't know what to do anymore." She looks up at me, then back at her glass. "To be honest, I wanted to die."  
"Survivor's guilt," I nod. "It's not uncommon."  
"I know. Luckily I had some good counsellors, got placed in a nice Alliance agricultural vessel where I got to finish school, and when I'd pieced myself together again I made a choice. I could go on and be a farmer like I always thought I wanted when I was a kid, and live with the damage and the loss and the scars. Or I could join the Alliance, be a soldier, and take my experience of Mindoir and put it to use on the battlefield and do everything I could to make sure what happened to me and my colony never happened to anyone else."  
"That's a good thing to fight for."  
"I thought so too, until the Blitz." She pauses again. "I didn't go into that fight expecting a suicide mission, but that's about how it ended up."  
"That wasn't your fault."  
Shepard shakes her head. "Do you know why they died, Miranda?"  
"They were doing their duty."  
"They did more than that." I don't like the shadows in her eyes, that haunted look. Between the slavers and the Blitz and the regular course of her active duty in the Alliance, I wonder how many people she's lost. I feel bad that I've never thought to check.  
"Our orders were to retake the area. I alone made the call to go above and beyond and make sure none of the slavers made it out." She looks me straight in the eye. "I forgot who I was. I forgot I wasn't in command to make that kind of decision. Losing my team was as bad as losing my family all over again - worse, even. Because I alone got my team killed and had to live with it."  
"It was their choice too, Shepard," I say as gently as I can.  
"It was my order. My responsibility. And because I couldn't see the difference between myself and the organisation I represented, I sent my team out to die." The expression on her face is hard, hard as stone. "But it's a mistake I won't make again. You, Tali, Jacob, Garrus, Grunt, Mordin - when I fight with you, I'm fighting for you, too. We complete the mission and we come out alive. That's all that matters. That's the reason I keep fighting."  
"It sounds like you're in danger of becoming attached," I say, trying to lighten the atmosphere a bit.  
"Hah!" Shepard scoffs. "Don't tell me you haven't read all my psych evaluations from the last ten years. You should know all this."  
I shake my head, because it's not true. Well, it's true I've read her psych evaluations, but I'm at a loss to relate that knowledge to the living, breathing person I work with every day. But at least my admission of ignorance puts a tiny smile back on her face.  
"I always expect you to automatically know everything about me there is to know, Miranda."  
"Physically, sure," I say. "But ever since you woke up, the way your mind works in action never ceases to amaze me."  
"But that's what you brought me back for, wasn't it? My mind? Anyone can fight, Miranda. Hell, you could take my place in a heartbeat. You deal just as much damage on the field and command just as much loyalty in your own right as I ever did." She takes a sip of her drink, but don't interrupt, because this lecture sounds like it's going to be very revealing. "In my very expensive opinion," she continues, "you and Cerberus could have saved a lot of time and money training up a replacement for me instead of rebuilding me from a pile of decomposing tissue. Oh, don't look like that. Put you in some decent armour and slap an N7 logo on the front and the only difference between us would be that you're a damn sight better-looking. I don't think anybody would complain." Shepard looks almost miffed about that, which makes me laugh because she is so, so wrong.  
"It doesn't matter how good I am, Shepard: I'm not you. I'm just an abstract idea of perfection designed by a self-aggrandising megalomaniac. You're Commander Shepard, the first human Spectre, saviour of the Council and the Citadel and by implication the whole galaxy. It was worth any amount of money and effort to bring you back. Nobody else can do what you do."  
Shepard snorts. "Now who's sounding attached?"  
"Don't be ridiculous," I scoff, draining my glass. "I would never be so unprofessional as to become attached to a lab project," I say loftily. Shepard grins.  
"You just slurred your words, Miranda. Very unprofessional."  
"I did not. In fact, I'm not even close to drunk."  
"Of course," says Shepard. "But if you ever find you do want to try out some unprofessional behaviour, let me know. I might be able to help."  
"Right," I say, wondering a little at this unexpected offer. "First I think I'd like to try some more drinking."  
"Good choice. This round's on me."  
"And just so you know, I don't think I'm more attractive than you. And I don't see how anyone else could think so either. Unless they saw you wearing that brown sack thing," I add.  
Shepard smirks. "Yeoman Chambers disagrees."  
"You didn't!"  
"I might have."  
This is what I get for trying not to encourage shipboard gossip - I miss out on all the shipboard gossip. I can't believe it. Suddenly I realise there's a new drink in my hand, but don't recall how it got there. I think that's good.  
"Did she offer to feed your fish or hamster or whatever animals you've got up there in your cabin dying slowly of neglect?" I ask.  
"What's to you if she did?" Shepard sounds a little defensive.  
"You know she'll be trawling through your personal files every time she visits your cabin to pet-sit."  
"So? It's not like I have any secrets I need to keep hidden."  
I don't believe her for a second. "You don't have any journal entries you want to keep private?"  
"No, I don't bother writing down my graphic sexual fantasies about my crew. Much more fun to act them out instead."  
It's the alcohol making my cheeks hot. It must be, because I never blush.  
"Incidentally," she continues, "did you know Kelly's bras don't have Cerberus logos on them?"  
Bloody Shepard.  
"I have a suggestion," I blurt out a little too quickly, and there's no denying now I'm not speaking as clearly as usual. "Doctor Chakwas isn't officially Cerberus and she's got a uniform without a logo. I'll requisition some in your size when we get back."  
"You can't make me wear anything I don't want to wear," says Shepard.  
"True. But if I have to see you in that bloody sack again I'm going to wrestle it off you. In front of the entire crew, if necessary."  
"I'd like to see you try!"  
"I know you've seen me in action a lot now, Shepard, but you haven't seen everything I can do." If that came out as smug, well, I can't help it, because it also happens to be true. But Shepard being Shepard, she takes it as a challenge.  
"Come on then," she says, rising off her barstool and grabbing her helmet from deep within the thicket of empty glasses in front of us. "Outside. You, me, now. Show me what you can do, Miranda."  
And then she grins at me, that infuriating, smug little grin she does when she knows she's going to get her way and can't help herself from taking a moment to let you know it, too. Oh, it is on. I am going to wipe that smile from her face, just this once. It's going to be great.

"No shields, no barriers, no guns," says Shepard as we reach the courtyard down the bottom of the stairs outside the bar.  
"This isn't going to..." I begin, but she launches herself at me before I can finish. Before I even think about what I'm doing I've tossed her into the air, letting her dangle there for a moment with her legs flailing, and then slammed her ass-first back to the ground.  
I think she's winded. Good.  
"You didn't say anything about biotics," I explain sweetly. "As I was about to say before I was rudely interrupted, it's not going to be a fair fight. I can keep dumping you on your ass like that all da--"  
My timing is all messed up - I don't manage to dodge Shepard's well-aimed shockwave at all. And now it's my turn to fall on my ass gasping for air because I'm too drunk to avoid the rookie error of getting knocked down backwards by the first pulse so the second one hits you square in the chest. Bloody hell, that hurts.  
"Concede!" Shepard wheezes joyfully, staggering to her feet.  
"Never!" I want to shout, but it just sounds like I'm choking, so I shake my head emphatically instead and then lose my balance trying to get up.  
Shepard just laughs at me. "Concede, Lawson!"  
"Is that an order, Commander?" I ask, doing my best impression of Jack at her most insubordinate. I'm going to have to give up on any pretence at dignity, because my legs are refusing to cooperate in this standing up business at all.  
"Yes."  
"I'm off duty."  
She just stands there, laughing, watching me continue to struggle to get upright.  
"Then concede because I'm charming. And because I promise to let you win round two."  
Fine. I don't need legs - I've got an omnitool. Overload isn't the most effective power against organics, but even at one-tenth actual combat strength it should zap that shit-eating grin right off her face. Unfortunately, I'm interrupted before I can test that assumption.  
"I've got a better idea," booms a gravelly voice from the top of the stairs. "Let's call it a draw and you two head home like good girls so I don't have to stasis both your asses and call the cops."  
I look at the matriarch bartender, and back at Shepard. She's still grinning. I put my omnitool away.  
"Agreed," we say at the same time. Shepard pulls me up by the hand, hoists my arm around her shoulders and together we stagger off towards the docking bays and the Normandy.

"You're drunk, Lawson," Shepard chuckles, like it's the funniest thing she's ever said.  
"So are you, Commander," I remind her.  
Then she stops suddenly, and I only just manage not to trip, because we're still arm-in-arm.  
"Miranda," she says quietly as I unhook myself from her, "do you really still think of me as a lab project?"  
Those shadows in her eyes are back, damn it, and she's not smiling any more.  
"No. No, I don't. You want the truth, Shepard? You were never just a lab project to me. You're humanity's best hope. Our best chance for survival in what's proving to be a very brutal galaxy."  
But she doesn't seem reassured by my inspirational speech at all. She just looks tired. And lonely, standing there with her helmet tucked under one arm, head bowed under the weight of all that expectation. I feel like such an idiot now, crapping on about the galaxy when we've only just spent the night talking about how much the team means to her. And unprofessional behaviour. And underwear.  
Bloody hell, I am the biggest idiot in the Terminus. She's been flirting with me and I didn't even notice.  
I take a seat on a convenient bench, my head swimming. Shepard sits down next to me and pulls two cans out of her helmet. She cracks them open and hands me one. We drink in silence for a moment or two.  
"What about that dress?" I point to the billboard across the boulevard, the one with the asari model wearing a black sheath dress with a high collar and cut-out detail at the neckline. "You'd look good in that."  
"You'd look better," says Shepard gruffly.  
"Black's not my colour. If they have it in a dark blue, maybe."  
"You could put in a requisition order. Cerberus might have one in stores." That makes me laugh.  
"We should go shopping before we leave Illium," I say.  
"If there's time," Shepard shrugs, noncommittal.  
"I need to pick up some other stuff, too. New underwear, definitely."  
"I'll make sure there's time," she says, just a fraction too quickly, making my heart catch in my throat. I really hope I'm not reading her wrong, but I guess there's only one way to find out for sure. So I take her hand and rest my head on her shoulder.  
"If you weren't drunk I'd invite you back to my cabin," Shepard says softly.  
"If I wasn't drunk I might not accept," I whisper back.  
"If I wasn't drunk I might not have asked in the first place."  
"Well, I guess its lucky we've both been drinking, isn't it."  
"Mmm."  
And then our lips meet.

She kisses like someone who actually knows what it means, what it's like to want someone so completely the only air you can contemplate breathing is that from their lungs. Soft but urgent, as if to say, don't panic, but if you leave me now, I might drown.  
I realise I have never wanted to hold someone in my arms as much as I want to hold her right now.

"Come on," I say, lifting her arm across my shoulders while I wrap one of mine around her waist and pull her to her feet. "Time to go home."


End file.
